


For that riches

by rillaelilz



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Quest of Erebor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: They should see Fili in the glory of his lazy mornings, when he’s crowned with sunlight in their bed, his limbs in a sated sprawl and his skin tender. When he holds out soft arms and pulls Kili on top of him, and holds him captive there, against his chest, grinning in a frame of golden hair. The very thought makes Kili’s heart swell with warmth and pride.





	For that riches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaucyWench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaucyWench/gifts).



> This is a raffle gift for [SaucyWench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaucyWench/pseuds/SaucyWench) <3 I'm so sorry for the delay, it's been- literally a month, but I hope you'll enjoy your gift anyway <3 Thank you for your patience <3 Truth be told, I had most of this written in April, but then again that was... kind of a bad time for me, so I'm afraid this fic suffered because of that. Still, I did my best *rolls off a cliff*

 

 

 

 

 

 

A shaft of fuzzy sunlight cuts through the open curtains, pinning the shadows of embroidered flowers against the tablecloth. Half the room is crowded with flowery patterns and doilies; Kili suspects Bilbo had a hand or two in this. There’s even a set of teacups, sitting nicely and clearly mismatched before him, chubby mama kettle with her diverse cup babies. It’s ridiculous, and yet it feels like a luxury next to the plate of sweetmeats.

“Nay, I don’t think this one will do for you, lad.”

Kili looks up, biting happily into his sugar-sprinkled shortbread as he watches Mirian fuss over his brother, viciously tugging a bright green tunic up over Fili’s head as if the poor thing were guilty of some great offense. He grins.

The tailor’s workshop is a bit of a handful to take in when one first enters it, perhaps even more so than the awe-inspiring tailor herself – mighty beard and glorious girth and all. 

It started out as nothing more than a shabby, overcrowded room at the heart of the city proper; the first attempts at exploration had uncovered a few undamaged chambers, complete with assorted tools and clothes – these mostly immaculate in their chests, save for the musty smell and the occasional layer of dust.

Erebor has never been known for letting goods go to waste; which was how most Lake-people found themselves with terrific ensembles of oddly-cut trousers and multicoloured sleeves, sometimes in clashing patterns  – if you were an average citizen, that is; the luckiest ones even got their tunics in two different types of cloth at once.

Kili isn’t sure how the future generations will cope with the  _Early Ereborean Fashion in the Post-Smaug Era_  section of Balin’s chronicles, but he trusts that they will find a way.

Things changed with the dawning of spring. As soon as snow melted and the roads were safe again, a bit of decent trading could finally be arranged, and even the workshop itself has been moved to accommodate the new range of cloths and clients – and to allow Mirian and her apprentice to work with more than just lamps and candles.

Not that the room isn’t crammed anyway. There’s folded cloth stacked in every corner, ranging from warm wool in fashionable Brown, Darker Brown and Wet Rat Brown, to breezy cotton for underclothes, and even a sample of glossy pink silk,  _Mahal knows_  how they got their hands on that. Every drawer is full of spools of thread and ribbons, and Kili’s counted at least three different pincushions scattered around the shop, like friendly little hedgehogs looking for a treat.

It’s a far cry from what they used to have, and it feels like a good omen. Things are finally looking up, and Kili knows that this is the least they all deserve.

“No no no, off, off! Mahal forbid you should walk out of my shop looking like a rotten lemon! Off, off with this, boy.”

Besides, Kili gets to have fun here.

There is something purer than delight in sitting back while Fili is standing on a stepstool, struggling to stay still as a dwarrowdam and her Tall apprentice dance about him in a whirlwind of measuring tapes and varying cloths. Oh, it’s quite lovely when they stand there, in between armufls of linen and velvet, and exchange opinions regarding Fili’s complexion as if he weren’t even there.

But the funniest part is the crease between Fili’s eyebrows, a clear sign that he’s fighting his own impatience with every last droplet of willpower he’s got in him.

“There now, that’s better.”

When their eyes meet over Mirian’s plump, fussying arms, Kili waves his brother hello and grins with his mouth still full of biscuit, and Fili’s eyes glimmer with  _murder_.

“All right, boy, let’s try with this one.”

A wall of fabric arises between them, and the next cookie crumbles with a muffled crush against Kili’s lips.

It’s purple, a rich plum-like hue, stark against the gleam of golden embroidery that trails down over the front. Kili knows it’s the right one before the seamstress ever lets it fall over Fili’s head.

The sleeves slip over Fili’s arms easily, all but kissing the circle of his wrists; the fabric stretches perfectly around Fili’s shoulders, smooth, velvety, and the way it enfolds his hips–  
It’s not a tunic. It’s pure _flattery_.

And Mirian and the Tall girl must see it, too, if their faces are anything to go by.

“Oh, this might just be the one, laddie – this might just be the one for you,” croons the dwarrowdam.

“Master Fili, it suits you so,” echoes the girl, all twined fingers and glee. “You look so very charming!”

Fili is hardly listening at all. His gaze seeks Kili’s again, and he looks so out of his depth, with his questioning eyes and his arms held awkwardly as if to ask, “Well?”. All Kili can do is give him a reassuring nod, and watch him nod curtly back, as if they’d just agreed on a war maneuver, rather than the fitting of a shirt.

A wave of sheer tenderness tugs at Kili’s heartstrings. Oh, the ladies are right – his brother  _is_  charming. And they don’t know the half of it. They should see Fili in the glory of his lazy mornings, when he’s crowned with sunlight in their bed, his limbs in a sated sprawl and his skin tender. When he holds out soft arms and pulls Kili on top of him, and holds him captive there, against his chest, grinning in a frame of golden hair. The very thought makes Kili’s heart swell with warmth and pride.

“This one will do, Mirian, thank you,” Fili concedes, trying to make himself as inconsequential as possible on his stool.

“Aye, that’s good, that’s good,” the lady approves, pushing her ginger beard out of the way to reach into her apron’s pockets. “It only needs some little tweaking, then it shall be perfect. Gitte, dear, if you would take his measurements, please?”

The girl jumps to the task with a chirping “ _Yes, Ma’m_ ”, smoothing her long, calloused fingers over Fili’s shoulders before she unravels the tape from one end to the other; her hazel eyes glancing bashfully back and forth between her tools and what little she can see of Fili’s profile.

Something stirs unpleasantly in Kili’s chest.

She’s young, he knows – she can be no older than Sigrid, and she’s most likely unaware of the way she’s looking at Fili, so clearly enamoured.

Surely, her hands don’t linger on purpose around Fili’s waist, and if she stares one second too long, it is only because Fili is handsome – because you could dress him in rags and he would still look more magnificent than the first star-crowned Durin, and  _anyone_  would stare.

If she’s blushing, it’s only due to her own modesty, and not because of any inappropriate thoughts; and her long, dark eyelashes don’t matter unless Fili notices them.

Kili pours himself some more tea, teeth worrying his lower lip. It’s all so unreasonable, he tells himself, watching steam curl prettily around his fingers.

“Oh, you’re bound to turn everyone’s heads in this, you’ll see!”

But uneasiness tosses and wriggles like a worm in his belly, and soon the tea sours on his tongue. He almost upsets the entire table when he gets up, chair scraping loudly across the stone floor.

“Forgive me, Mirian, I just recalled I was meant to meet uncle Thorin this afternoon– you don’t mind if I come back tomorrow, do you?”

“Of course not, laddie, but–”

Fili casts him a puzzled glance, but Kili just rushes to the door, stealing one last biscuit for show.

“Kili?”

“I’ll see you later, Fee!”

_Later_ , as it happens, Kili finds a few, quite creative ways to make Fili forget about the whole mishap. And luckily enough, too, because he isn’t sure himself what he should even say.

 

 

*

 

 

With the warm seasons, work for the rebuilding of Erebor and Dale can finally start in earnest. New caravans arrive nearly every week – dwarves from the Iron Hills and men from nearby settlements, all ready to join in. Elves as a whole seem more reticent, but Kili can still spot a few familiar faces in the crowd.

By early summer, the Mountain looks more like a small, bustling town than an impoverished village; the lucky string of sunny days they get after that helps keeping up the general good modd, and even Thorin is back on his feet.

He grumbles a lot, now that official meetings with allies are more frequent. He doesn’t so much mind Bard as he loathes sharing a room with the likes of Thranduil, that is. Yet, underneath all that sulking and grouching, Kili can see that he’s happy.

There’s this glint in Thorin’s eyes when he walks around the camp, when he watches the tunnels and houses come back to life all around him, and the glow from the rekindled forges strikes his features, and it’s entirely new and… strangely endearing.

It’s the quiet, watery look of somebody whose dream came true, against all odds, after years and years of hopeless yearning, and Kili can’t help but be happy for him, too.

Of course, he’d be happier if he could spend more time with Fili, but with all the work that needs doing, that just doesn’t happen. Fili has to be where Thorin cannot; take on his share of responsibilities, organizing, directing, consulting, finding solutions to every new problem, and all the while, making sure that everyone has everything they need.

Kili helps as much as he can, but everything still hangs in delicate balance, one he’s not sure yet how to pull his weight onto without making it all collapse somehow. So he walks, one careful step after another, trying to follow the trail Fili left behind; so that he, too, might be where Fili cannot.

 

 

*

 

 

They find flowers where they thought nothing would ever grow again.

There’s this spot a little ways from the Mountain, a small clearing contained within the undergrowth, still miles away from the woods. The grass is sparse and somewhat pale, nowhere near the luscious meadows they grew up with, but it’s still warm under the summer sun, shivering between Kili’s fingers when the breeze arises.

Fili’s lying beside him, his hair spread across the bed of green, all curls and gentle wisps like the fancy letters in Bilbo’s book. It’s a rare moment of peace, and Kili leans in to take advantage of it, one hand resting leisurely on the planes beneath Fili’s breastbone.

Fili looks up at him, a soft, intimate gleam in his eyes. His moustache beads look all sprawled and askew from up here, Kili notices; they fall right over the half-moons of Fili’s dimples, and he wants to kiss them, nuzzle them, rub his bristly chin into Fili’s beard and watch Fili squirm and laugh until his voice is breaking in those precious, high-pitched squealing sounds he’s been trying so hard to hide.

“Hello,” Kili whispers instead, watching his own hair slip off his shoulder and woo the sweet crease of Fili’s neck.

“Hello,” Fili whispers back. He runs the tip of his nose along Kili’s, a gentle back-and-forth motion that brings their lips close together; but when Kili leans into him to collect his prize, he finds himself kissing the pads of Fili’s fingers, rather than his mouth.

“Why–” he whines, but Fili shushes him again, with this look on his face that is half apology, half resignation.

“We have company,” he says, and as soon as Kili starts paying attention, he hears it, too. The hurried steps and giggles of children and the pleas not to stray too far from their parents, all approaching at remarkable speed.

Kili lets his weight drop on top of Fili’s body with a long, helpless groan.

“We should have stayed indoors,” he mutters, face squished against his brother’s chest, “I told you! Remember how I told you? I definitely did.”

Fili just chuckles, his whole frame jiggling underneath Kili.

“Come on, Kee,” he cajoles, patting Kili’s flank like he would with a fussy pony, “off of me, brother.”

Soon a small crowd reaches them, the younglings swarming the clearing to pick up flowers and look for lizards, the grown-ups following close behind. It’s a happy mix of men and dwarves – each bearing at least an axe or a sword, just in case – some of them carrying baskets for an outdoors snack. They all greet the princes warmly, and the realization that he remembers almost all of their names startles Kili, and kindles something akin to pride in his chest.

Erebor may or may not become home to them in the future, although Kili doubts that it shall come to Fili and him as easily as it did Thorin; but whether or not that comes to pass, they will have friends here. When years have passed and they’ve grown roots in this sturdy soil, whatever else they will have built, they will have friends here. And that’s more comforting than the prospect of a crown.

“Fili?”

They both turn their heads towards the shy little voice, a motion in perfect sync.

There, standing in worn boots and fluffed up skirts before them, is Tilda, her rosy cheeks warmed by the sun.

“You said you could teach me,” she mumbles, revealing a bunch of flowers from the loose folds of her apron. She looks so hopeful, it would feel like a crime to say no.

“Of course, my lady,” Fili says, smiling his most charming smile. “Please, take a seat. It shall be an honour,” he winks, and her face lights up like the sky at dawn.

And then she’s sitting down, nestled within the vee of Fili’s sprawled legs, a pile of  colourful flowers between them. Kili can do nothing but draw his knees up and watch, grinning, as Fili twists and twines the long stems together, showing Tilda how to weave them into a chain. She’s utterly enraptured, and he’s so handsome, in his leather jerkin and rolled-up sleeves, braiding flowers the way Ma taught them all those years ago. If butterflies start dancing and fluttering about in Kili’s stomach, he’s not surprised at all.

Somehow, before either of them realizes it, children start gathering ‘round, each holding a scrawny bouquet of daisies and wildflowers and trying to sneak a peek at the chain unraveling from Fili’s busy hands.

When Fili notices, and looks up at last, they stand there awkwardly for a moment, a row of puppy eyes staring down at him expectantly; until Fili smiles and jerks his chin up, his moustache swinging merrily about.

“Come join us, everyone.”

The minute he says it, the whole bunch rushes to pick a spot and sit down, as close to him as possible, most of them squished up together in a tangle of skirts and skinny legs and knocking knees. A few kids almost step on Kili in their hurry, and he ends up sitting in the back, a little bruised but still miracolously alive.

Fili waves at him from the middle of the pile – but then the class demands his attention again, and Kili spends the next twenty-odd minutes listening to his brother explain the how’s and why’s of flower-weaving, and making dashing promises of grand crowns,  _the very best_  in the world.

Ten more minutes and Kili’s ready to sneak away, maybe make himself useful where the others are spreading out their blankets for a picnic, but he’s barely standing up and dusting his knees when Fili catches sight of him.

“And where, praytell, do you think you’re going?” He asks, and suddenly Kili’s got a dozen pairs of eyes set on him.

“I,” Kili declares, quite eloquently.

“We need a model to test out our crowns,” Fili informs him, and then the traitor goes and points an accusing finger at him. “ _Seize him!_ ”

An army of squeeing children rises against Kili, crashing into him with the momentum of a mountain troll. The battle is tragic. The hero is outnumbered, the enemy force overwhelming. There are casualties.

And Kili finds himself on his back, buried under a pile of giggling kids, all stacked on top of him like pancakes on a breakfast plate. In the background, Fili’s laughing so hard he’s doubling over, a couple of daisies dangling off his ear. Kili snorts, or he’s coughing up flowers, he’s not entirely sure himself.

“I hate you,” he grumbles as soon as he’s able to breathe.

“No, you don’t,” says his brother, victory written all over his face, and Fili’s a lucky bastard, he is – because he’s right. Kili doesn’t. Kili never could.

 

 

*

 

 

They plow the fields surrounding Dale, where barren rock becomes rich soil. They plant beans and tomatoes and apple trees, saving a spot for the potatoes they’ll lay in the ground in September, to nurse all through the winter. They buy goats and more chickens, and a few donkeys to help carry fruit and firewood back and forth.

In the evenings, they still dine together, all gathered in the Great Hall, where they first made camp after the Battle; the torches always cast a bright light over the vast room, reaching up to the high ceiling, where thin veins of mithril glint faintly like the ghost of stars in the night. It’s the stuff you could spin tales about, Kili can see it now – tales to charm younglings and soothe an old dwarf’s heart – and the quiet glint in his brother’s eyes, when they share a look between them, tells him that he’s right.

They even hold a feast on Midsummer Day, a modest thing to celebrate the ripening wheat; and Kili manages to talk nearly half the dwarves present into playing their favourite songs with him and Fili. Even Thorin indulges him, his fair eyes twinkling all silver-like as he’s handed a harp, and his notes are the sweetest they hear that night. Kili leans into Fili’s side to listen, heart wrapped up in warmth, their fingers laced under the long table.

They make do, Kili supposes he can say. But it’s still a busy life, the one they’re falling into.

Every night, he and Fili slip beneath the sheets together; in the mornings, they rise together; but the days they do get to spend together are still few and far between. There’s hardly enough time for the little things anymore; for the leisure of pipesmoke and shared baths, for all those small habits they had built their old life around. Privacy only exists within their chambers now, and even then, they’re often too tired to go beyond cuddling and snuggling up to one another.

And Kili is glad to help, glad to be able to share his endless pride and faith in Fili with the people of Erebor –  _their_  people. But something grows in the hollows between his ribs, like a plant taking roots in the deepest folds of him.

Every day, surrounded by his new friends and the deep green glow of Erebor’s stone, Kili feels homesick – an ache beyond words that makes his chest feel tight and his heart sore – until night falls and he can crawl into bed, and lie with his head pillowed on Fili’s shoulder, his brother’s arms wrapped securely around him. When Fili hums quietly and combs gentle fingers through his hair, the sheer relief is so strong, it tangles knots in Kili’s throat.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s in late August, after the shooting stars surprised them and caught the delighted  _oohs_  and  _aahs_  of the people huddled on the battlements. After the full moon turned the tides and swept her milk-white gowns over the Lake, glittering in the distance like a thousand candles lit in the valley.

The air is cool inside the Mountain – far from the autumn chill, and rich with the scent of mead and dinner simmering in pots or roasting over a fire – and music reaches Kili’s ear as he’s walking down the main Hall. It’s a fiddle, he knows right away; the melody so familiar, his fingers itch to play along, the way he’s done countless times before, standing by his mother’s hearth – Fili’s gaze locked with his, his grin mirroring Kili’s own.

So Kili keeps walking, knowing just what he’ll find. And he’s right, of course he is. For there his brother is, sitting in a corner, head tilted to keep his fiddle in place, his half-lidded eyes focused on a distant spot on the floor. The very sight of him tugs at Kili’s heartstrings, it’s so utterly perfect.

Except for the young man beside him, holding an instrument of his own and clearly trying to mimic Fili’s stance –  _that_  Kili hs never seen before.

“Ah– here, let me show you– like this.”

Fili reaches over to adjust the boy’s hold on his fiddle, bringing his hands to the other’s chin, his elbow, his forearms where the sleeves have ridden back. Their fingers brush together around the bow and something twists unpleasantly in Kili’s guts, hot and thick like battle-rage. He sees the smiles they exchange between the two of them, gentle, intimate, a shared moment of playfulness and mutual understanding, and his heartbeat’s pitched so loud, Kili can hear it rumble in his ears.

There’s a feeling of  _wrongness_  about this, like sickness stirring in his stomach. He watches them play together tentatively, the boy following Fili’s lead and seeking his gaze, his  _approval_ , as they stumble through the first few bars, and it’s too much all at once. It’s like a poison taking over his bloodstream, twisting everything into something ugly – Fili’s attentions are maddening, his smiles are betrayal and the boy is a thief, robbing Kili of what is rightfully his. The place at his brother’s side. The glint in his eyes. The name on Fili’s lips. The laughter bubbling in his chest.

And Kili hates himself more than ever, because it’s unfair, and it’s stupid, and his throat feels tight and full. So when Fili notices him, fiddle lowered to his lap,

“Kili! We were waiting for you–”

Kili turns on his heel and leaves.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s too warm in their chambers when Fili walks in, and yet Kili shivers.

The door falls shut quietly, but there’s still noise crowding Kili’s mind – mean things, mean words, mean feelings all battling for the crown – and his head’s too heavy to raise it and look his brother in the eye.

“Kili,” Fili starts, worry evident in his voice, “what on earth was that? Is something the matter?”

Kili dig his knuckles in the mattress, his gaze fixed on the pelts laid by the bed. Fili sat here last night, barefoot – toes curling in the soft furs as Kili knelt between his legs and cupped Fili’s hips in trembling hands, his mouth set to worship.

“I thought it was our thing,” he says flatly, tearing his eyes away from the wolfskin.

“What?” Fili takes a few steps forward, boots hitting the floor with a soft  _thump, thump, thump_. “What are you talking about, Kee?”

Kili turns to face him, hair whipping angrily at his shoulders.

“The fiddles.That song,” he says. And swallows. And looks away, because looking at Fili in he first place was a mistake. Fili, who stands enveloped in shifting shadows and candlelight and Kili’s borrowed tunic. Fili, whose hair in an inch longer than it used to be, reaching well beneath his collarbones, and Kili is only noticing now. Fili, who is only a few feet away, and yet he seems as unreachable as the moon.

“I thought it was our thing,” Kili murmurs a second time, staring at his fumbling fingers, knotted together in his lap.

“That?  _That_  upset you? Kili, I was just–” Fili stutters, gesturing helplessly where he stands in the middle of the room, until eventually, he gives up.

“Seriously, Kili. You can’t really think that I’d go and– and  _replace_  you, or whatever silly idea got in your head.”

It stings, how Fili can see right through him like this.

He sits on the armchair across from Kili, close to the edge, leaning forward so their knees are almost touching.

“Kili,” he says, patiently, as if explaining to a child, “these people have already lost so much. I’m just trying to make life easier where I can.”

And deep down Kili knows that, loves him for that, but there’s this lump stuck fast in his throat, and it stops any reasonable thoughts like a damn plug.

“It just– feels like, for them to gain something, I must lose that something first.”

He regrets it before he can ever see disappointment flash in Fili’s eyes.

“ _Kili–_ ”

“No, I– I’m sorry, I–” he fumbles, raking a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know I’m being stupid.”

Fili exhales, clearly not amused, but perhaps not entirely furious either.

“I was going to say childish, but that works too, yeah.”

Kili nods, letting his hands drop heavily in the gap between his legs.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and it sounds just as miserable as he feels. “I heard it as soon as I said it.”

Fili’s expression softens, then; his hand comes to rest on the curve of Kili’s knee, squeezing gently.

“We’re allowed to be stupid, sometimes,” he says with a small, indulgent smile that makes Kili hopeful, and twice as ashamed of himself. But his brother’s hand is warm, a steadying weight to keep him grounded despite everything.

He’s missed this. The closeness between them; the little touches that say more than any words ever could. The moments they used to have every day, just the two of them; when the world was mapped out beneath their feet, every crevice known, every move practiced and honed. He misses all of it so much it hurts.

“It’s just… Everything is changing and… and it’s scary, you know?” He admits quietly, his gaze low. “And we always seem to be apart, these days.”

Fili clasps their hands together, both of his folded around Kili’s own gently, protectively.

“I’m sorry, Kee,” he says, “I never meant for you to feel lonely. I’m so sorry. But I want you to understand this.”

The chair creaks weakly when Fili stands up; he moves to sit down next to Kili, their hands still linked between them, and the bedspread rustles softly as if in welcome.

“Look at me, Kili,” he bids, and slowly, all too slowly, Kili obeys.

He finds Fili’s eyes trained on him, his expression determined, steady, and has to fight not to curl up against him and pretend nothing else exists outside this room.

“However many things will change over the next months, years, decades –  _this_ will stay the same,” Fili says, bringing their joined hands closer, until they’re brushing against his chest. “What we have. What we’ve always had. This can never change. Do you hear me?  _Never_.”

He looks so earnest, like this is the most important thing he’ll ever say in his life, and Kili takes the plunge then, curls his fingers in the lapels of Fili’s tunic and pulls him in for a kiss. Fili melts into it at once, tilting his head to the side to meet him fully, his lips parted like an invitation.

Kili hums happily against his mouth, throws his arms around his brother’s neck, and Fili eases them back on the bed; Kili guides him to lie on top of him, and down Fili goes, his hips nestled comfortably between Kili’s legs.

When they part on the next breath, Kili lets his head lie back against the bed, a slow smile forming on his lips. His gaze is so full of adoration as he looks up at Fili, all fondness and longing – and Fili kisses him again and again, and again just to feel the softness of Kili’s mouth under his own.

“We’ll be late for dinner,” Kili reminds him in a murmur, tangling his fingers in Fili’s hair.

“Let them wait for a change,” Fili says, and Kili sighs, content in his brother’s arms.

“All right.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Shakespeare's Sonnet #87:
> 
> [...] For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?  
> And for that riches where is my deserving?


End file.
